


contribute a verse

by ChristyCorr



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: Neil grows up. He never really grows out of Whitman.
Relationships: Todd Anderson/Neil Perry
Comments: 26
Kudos: 55
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	contribute a verse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kouredios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kouredios/gifts).



The empty classroom was somehow more daunting than all the steps leading up to this point had been—and God knew Neil had all but fled in terror more times than he could count in the process. In just a few minutes, a horde of upperclassmen would rush in. His first day teaching English at Welton Academy.

Neil had done all he could to avoid thinking about what this moment might feel like. It was almost too much, the emotions welling up inside him a tangled, unrecognisable mess all too reminiscent of the teenage student he'd been when he walked these halls. He didn’t quite know how to feel, mind circling memories without latching onto any—the unrelenting anguish of his high school years and the overwhelming affection of his new friendships were all intertwined, every moment of release brighter for how desperately he’d clung to them. 

And now here he was again, facing the same old wooden desks he’d once sat at. Each desk was a palimpsest of scribbles by countless students, every one eager to leave behind his mark, just as he once had been. Were these even still the same desks that Keating had encouraged them to climb, to look at the world from a different perspective? Now, then, here he was, teaching the class in which he'd once been a pupil: talk about one hell of a change in perspective.

Fifteen years since he’d graduated from this school. He’d never thought to set foot here again. After he'd graduated to parental threats of rejection and impoverishment, he'd had little more than hopes to guide him. His senior year had been both gleeful and tense: moments of joy and companionship stolen away amid relentless, crushing pressure. Sharing his anguish with Todd that night had been the hardest decision of his young life, but Todd had anchored him through it all. Everything felt almost inevitable in hindsight: his theatre career, his debut as a playwright, his English degree, taking up teaching on the side to pay off his student loan, applying for a job at Welton of all places, getting the call from Headmaster McAllister. But Neil knew it wasn't; he still remembered the darkest, most hopeless days, and he was proud and grateful to have come this far.

Todd, ever so dramatic, had called this job his odyssey. The triumphant hero’s homecoming, fraught with insidious perils, ghosts and traps. Neil wished he had Todd’s confidence in his ability to face Welton and its demons; more than anything, he wished Todd could be here, too. Much of the growing up they’d done since Welton they’d done together, after all. There was no one else he’d rather have by his side here. 

Not that Todd hadn’t already tried his best to do it from afar, ever since Neil had submitted his application. Neil smiled at the memories. Sensing his partner’s anxiety, Todd had spent weeks in their small-even-for-New-York apartment acting out skits of possible Welton encounters, mixing stereotypes and memories: the benevolent but permanently sleepy lecturer, the stern head librarian, the overeager student, the demanding parent. Each had an impossible demand, comment or question; each were met with Todd’s farcical imitation of Neil himself, at turns enthusiastic and melodramatic. It didn't seem quite so impossible, then, to face Welton; just as he had when they were students, Todd helped make the nightmares feel beatable.

When that litany of caricatures hadn’t been enough to lift Neil’s spirits, on their last day together, Todd had grabbed a well-loved copy of Song of Myself from the pile Neil had been packing to bring to his new job. 

They both still had a fierce, selfish love for Whitman, tangled as he was with their own history. There were feelings they’d learned to say with Whitman’s words first, trading clumsy, inexpert kisses in their shared room, stumbling their way through each quoted verse in jest, making light, emotions too impossible to admit even in the quiet of their shared breaths. 

Noticing Todd's choice of reading material, Neil couldn't help a smile. Todd was still leafing through the book looking for something, but Neil could already feel his brain slowing down, drawn to contemplation despite the turmoil in his thoughts.

Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,  
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,  
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,  
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself

That was of course the poem Todd had gone for then, as Neil packed to move five hours away. Neil, already missing him like a limb even if he hadn’t left yet, had been disarmed and undone. For minutes he could do nothing but watch, helpless, as Todd reminded him of the first poem that had been _theirs_ —of how they'd found solace in each other no matter what else was happening at Welton. 

And this was the promise Todd had been making at that moment, that they both had made to each other time and again over the years: even though sometimes it felt like the entire world was on fire and like nothing else made sense, Neil and Todd would still be there for each other. 

Living apart for a while would be hard and was already taking its toll, but Neil comforted himself with the knowledge that it wouldn't be forever; he had a four-year contract at Welton. They would see each other soon. Todd would drive up to Vermont some weekends, and others Neil would go, and summer would come soon enough. So much could change in the future. Neil's career as a playwright might take off, and Todd was hoping for a promotion to editor. Make it through four years of this, and then a life together. He remembered repeating this to himself his first time at Welton, too.

But first, Neil had to survive today.

He’d rehearsed the opening speech he’d give today so many times. Between his work as a substitute teacher and his three years at Haynes, he already had six years’ worth of teaching experience, but of course Welton was something else. He knew these students better than any others; he knew the difference a friendly face could make.

The impact of Keating’s teaching had stayed with him for years, after all. Neil was still only starting to figure out in what ways he did and didn’t want to be the same kind of teacher Keating had been for him: a passionate non-conformist who, though well-meaning, knew little about how to help teenagers make it through the chaos of high-school emotions.

Deep inside, Neil already knew he wanted to do better than Keating had. He _knew_ how bad it could get. High school had almost broken him, but he’d survived. He’d forged his own path. Maybe none of it was in a way that the world or his parents expected, but he was proud of his choices, even the wrong ones he wished he could take back; he was, even today, fiercely glad that each and every one had been his own choice to make.

But there was one thing he had entirely in common with Keating: his goal here was to try to teach these boys how to _feel_ what they read. To learn to see themselves, their emotions and fears and dreams, in these poems they’d discover together—and maybe, someday, to see others, too.

Taking a deep breath, Neil went to the blackboard and wrote the two verses he’d chosen for this class weeks ago. Years, maybe. Behind him, he heard the noises of the first students trickling in, their chatter loud and excited. 

He had no idea if he could do the words justice. He was damn well going to try.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,  
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, kouredios!
> 
> Special thanks to cathexys for the brainstorming help and the feedback, and to septiemestar for the betaing! <3


End file.
